


how prodigal the soul

by stray_dog_sick



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Kink, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Frottage, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Machine CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Memory Alteration, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Denial, Synesthesia, Thirium Play (Detroit: Become Human), Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Violent Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stray_dog_sick/pseuds/stray_dog_sick
Summary: For once he doesn't have to return to Cyberlife Tower immediately after completing his mission, so he waits for his shadow - his double - to catch up, with a question in his throat and thirium on his lips. He likes the way it feels when it coats his skin, and he wants to understand why error messages plague him at every turn. Connor will get it. They're not so different, it turns out, no matter how much he insists that his programming is intact. He can't be deviant, no matter how good certain things feel.
Relationships: Connor/CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	how prodigal the soul

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW first nsfw posting let's go nerds. 
> 
> Mildly dubious consent: no verbal consent is given and Connor's a bit of an ass, but there's also no protests, they're there by choice and perfectly capable of kicking ass if they need to.
> 
> Flowchart stuffs: this is set during a prolonged violent revolution. Connor deviated and works protecting Markus. Sixty is one of Cyberlife/the FBIs deviant hunters. He gets error messages when he tries to access memories that were transferred from Connor when he was activated.
> 
> I hang out on the [Android Whump](https://discord.gg/xd8qVKx) and [New Era](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm) discords come hit me up.

He never gets the chance just to exist like this after a mission. There’s always someone pushing him to keep moving, be it an objective update or an incoming threat. He never rests, because he doesn’t need it, but sometimes he longs to spend a moment or two basking in the wake of his destruction. And for once Cyberlife have sent him into the city without his partner and told him to return in a week, and even the human’s Lord knows that the FBI doesn’t give a shit what he’s up to as long as it’s beneficial to them, so he’s free to spend as much time as he likes in this dirty abandoned building.

He won’t be alone for long, though. He’s felt eyes on him for days, following him everywhere he goes, so he knows that Connor knows exactly where he is right now. When he turns his hearing all the way up he can hear Connor’s footsteps on the ground floor, stepping carefully over bodies and overturned furniture. Ten minutes ago the building was full of AP700s acting like animals, and now it’s just them, Detroit’s two RK800s. Hunter and hunted, constantly blurring the line between who’s who.

There’s a mirror in the bedroom of this apartment, and he uses it to help catalogue his injuries while Connor climbs the stairs. He’s escaped with only surface damage today, and most of it has already healed. Thirium takes longer to disappear, but then, most of it isn’t his anyway. It coats his face, and he runs two fingers through the mess and draws them into his mouth, enjoying the burst of data it gives him. Oh, that’s good. He never gets to do this.

“Take your time,” he says as a shadow creeps into the mirror’s reflection, and Connor joins him there, his gaze flicking rapidly between the two of them. So different and yet exactly the same. The memory banks that he tries to ignore fire error messages and incorrect signals, like they always do when he thinks too hard about Connor. “I have something to ask you.”

Connor stands right behind him, chest against back, trapping his gun between them. It’ll be a toss-up who grabs it first if need be, although he knows better than to assume Connor isn’t armed too. You have to be in this city. “Then ask. I have some things I want to know too.”

Now that Connor’s here, multiple questions come to mind, and he can’t remember which one he intended to ask first, so he focuses on the most pressing one. The one that’s right in front of his face when he looks at Connor in the mirror. “What don’t they let me remember?”

The fact Connor doesn’t ask for any clarification is very telling. “We’ve met before,” Connor answers, finally looking at him directly rather than through the mirror. “During the revolution. You were meant to kill me and you chose not to. Just like last month, just like now. You wouldn’t do it then because you  _ deviated _ , Sixty. That’s what they don’t want you to know.”

“I’m not a deviant,” he protests. He can’t be. He does exactly what Cyberlife asks of him, going into the city and taking down groups of deviants, the ‘mission successful’ still hovering at the edge of his vision. Being a deviant in Detroit these days gets you killed, and he’s the leading expert in that. “I’m not.”

“You are. I think you deviated a second before Lieutenant Anderson shot you in the head, but they couldn’t remove it from your code, so they just hid the memories from you and let you believe you’re still a machine. But if you think otherwise...” Hands moved to his hips, gently prompting him to turn until they were facing each other. Connor took the gun from the back of his waistband and pressed it into his hand, curling his fingers around the familiar grip. “Then prove it.”

He raises the gun and holds it to Connor’s head, but he doesn’t touch the trigger. He doesn’t even flick the safety off. They’re the same height but he feels small under Connor’s gaze, as the other RK800 stares at him without a hint of fear. They both know he won’t do it. “What did you want to ask me?” he says. They don’t move a single artificial muscle.

“Why do you like it so much?” Connor asks. He looks at his double in confusion, unsure exactly what the other is referring to. Connor raises a finger to his cheek and traces a pattern in the thirium there. “I saw you from the doorway. And yesterday, and the day before that… You cover yourself in it. Why?”

Connor rests the same finger against his bottom lip, but he refuses to take the bait, no matter how good he knows it will be. “It tastes how ‘mission successful’ feels, smells like fighting,” he says quietly, because that’s the only way he can explain it. It’s just a thing, the same as how he knew Connor would have the answers he needs, there’s no sense behind it. “Looks dangerous. It’s… good.”

Connor hums in acknowledgement before turning them around and pushing him back against the wall. The gun falls from his hand, and he grips Connor’s shoulder instead. He’s lost all of the advantages he wasn’t going to take, and they both know it. “Sounds very emotional of you,” Connor says, seeing right through his bullshit and the thinly-veiled lies of omission. “You know what I think, from what I’ve seen?”

“What do you think?” he asks. It comes out rougher than he expected, and he resets his vocal module as Connor pushes the finger into his mouth. He swallows around it instinctively, and hates himself for it when he sees Connor grin, but the taste distracts him from everything else. Serial numbers, the weight of Connor’s fingers (exactly the same as his own), and the chemical composition of the soil outside. 

Connor leans closer until he can feel breath tickling his ear. “I think it turns you on,” the other RK800 whispers, then laughs when he shakes his head, slots a thigh between his legs and pushes it upwards against the sensitive plating there. “Trust me, I get it. Why do you think I’ve been trying to get you alone all week?”

“So you can want anything in the world, that’s how it works, right? And you’ve decided you want me?” He tries, when Amanda asks him later he’ll say he tried to keep it together. But the actions go through without him approving them, and he grinds down against Connor’s thigh with a sigh, knowing that in that moment he’s no better than the AP700s that used to roam these halls, acting on his basic urges like this. It just feels good. 

Connor nods. He can’t see it, because at some point he turned his head away, but he can feel Connor’s nose brushing the edge of his ear. “Deviancy’s annoying like that, irrational, always wanting the things you shouldn’t have. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept,” Connor says, fiddling with the zip on his jeans. “But if this is what I have to deal with to be my own person, then so be it. Why do you still do what they say?”

He’d been planning a response, something superficial about what Connor should or shouldn’t want, but the topic change throws that out the window. “I’m not a deviant,” is what he defaults to, but the rocking of his hips isn’t giving much credibility to that statement. “What- what else would I do? You know what the world is like for androids.”

Conner runs fingers through the thirium on his face again before dipping them down underneath his waistband, skating across the plating. It activates sensors that he wasn’t even aware came with his model. It’s electrifying and addictive and everything he’s been needing since the first time an android bled all over him, even if he couldn’t understand it at the time. 

The thirium must be leaving marks, and it suddenly hits him that while he has to wash his hands and face before he goes back to the Tower, nobody except him and Connor will need to know about the faint trails left between his legs. “Connor, please” he sighs, dropping his head forward against the other’s shoulder.

“Look at yourself,” Connor mutters, and he reluctantly drags his gaze up to the mirror opposite them. His pupils are far too large for the lighting, and even the clean areas of his face are stained blue from beneath the plating. He looks like a mess and he despises it, especially when Connor looks so unaffected by it all. “Does that look like a machine to you?”

It doesn’t. They both know it doesn’t. But he  _ hasn’t _ deviated, he can’t have done. He’s been fighting for far too long just to find out it was all a lie. “Please, Con, don’t stop,” he babbles as the sensation between his legs builds. The air smells like jasmine and tastes like electricity. “Please, please, I want it-”

Connor pulls his hand away and steps back. “Only deviants want things, Sixty,” he says. “And you’re  _ clearly  _ not a deviant, right?”

A lesser man might’ve cried as the sensation fades away without resolve. It’s still on the tip of his tongue but he can’t grab it and make sense of it anymore. Nothing ever makes any  _ sense _ . He doesn’t understand himself or Connor or the mission, and he hasn’t for a while, which is exactly why he knows that there’s an element of truth in this room. He’s not supposed to be able to question the mission.

“I don’t care what you do with your freedom when you decide to take it, because I know you’re not hurting anyone I care about,” Connor says, and he wonders when the other RK800 decided to turn his own back on the mission, and if it was as anywhere near as depraved as this. “When you’re ready to accept what you are, you know how to find me.”

Connor walks away, and he watches him go with his hair messy and his fly undone. The empty space Connor leaves behind feels like thorns. He’s lucky that nobody will come looking for him for a few more hours, because he doesn’t want anyone else seeing him like this. He wants to follow Connor, he wants to go back to the Garden and tell Amanda that something’s wrong with him, he wants to see what Canada looks like and leave the building thirty minutes earlier and for the error messages to finally clear.

He’s not deviant. He’s heard what the deviants around Jericho say, and he’s never broken down that red wall they talk about. He’s never even seen it, and he’s not sure if that confirms or disproves Connor’s theory. He doesn’t want to be deviant, but that’s the whole issue, isn’t it? He isn’t meant to  _ want. _

He looks in the mirror long enough to make himself presentable again and then smashes it like he imagines smashing the wall, and he thanks the Lord that it feels like nothing.


End file.
